Ilorin North — Dawn
The rain had eased to a drizzle, but the air still carried the smell of rust and wet earth.
The safehouse walls hummed faintly from the generator's tremor, its light flickering like a heartbeat refusing to die.
Tope sat by the window, arms wrapped around herself, eyes fixed on the thin fog veiling the road outside.
The night had stretched too long — heavy with secrets and questions she could no longer outrun.
Behind her, Bayo moved quietly — deliberate steps, measured breaths — a man trying to calm a storm without knowing where it began.
"Eagle-One says the network is holding steady," he murmured, scanning the comms board. "Northern nodes synced with Lagos and Port Harcourt. If Ayo's codes hold—"
He froze mid-sentence.
The name had slipped out before thought could censor it.
Tope's shoulders stiffened. The sound of her son's name in his voice landed like a stone dropped into still water.
Bayo turned slowly. "What did I just say?"
"You said… Ayo." Her tone was even, but her eyes flickered between fear, disbelief, and something deeper.
Bayo frowned. "That name—" He hesitated, trying to summon memory through exhaustion. "Back in Abeokuta, the kid's voice in the comms. He called you Mom once. I thought I misheard."
Silence stretched. Only the soft tapping of rain filled the room.
"Tope," he said quietly, "who is Ayo?"
She rose slowly from the chair, the weight of years in her posture. "You already know, Bayo. You just never looked close enough."
He stepped forward, jaw tight. "Don't do that. Don't twist this into riddles. I've had ghosts whisper through encrypted lines for weeks — a kid guiding our survival like a phantom. You said Eagle-One's second protégé was off-grid. You never said he was nine."
Her silence was an answer.
The storm outside began again, faint thunder rumbling in the distance.
~ ~ ~
Ilorin — Safehouse Corridor, Morning
The rain came harder, slashing against the corrugated roof. Inside, truth began to unravel thread by thread.
"I had him when I was sixteen," Tope said at last, voice steady but trembling at its edges. "Before the first campaign. Before all of this."
She looked up, meeting his stare. "I didn't hide him because I was ashamed. I hid him because this city eats anything that breathes hope. And Ayo…" she paused, her throat tightening, "Ayo is hope made flesh."
Bayo's breath hitched. "Nine years, Tope. You fought beside me through protests, prisons, exile. You trusted me with your life — but not your child?"
"You think trust is a switch you flip?" Her voice cracked, the words slicing through the tension. "You were a soldier, Bayo. I was a survivor. There's a difference."
He looked away, rain echoing the ache between them.
"Does Eagle-One know?"
She shook her head. "Only one other person — my cousin in Ibadan. That's where Ayo's been. Hidden. Until you dragged the network into the open."
Bayo's fists clenched. "So the kid's been fighting our war from a stranger's living room?"
"Not a stranger," she said softly. "Family. He learned early that hiding doesn't mean running. It means waiting."
He took a step closer. "And now? You let him fight with us?"
"He chose it, Bayo. You think I wanted my son on these channels? Coding through the night while power cuts and gunshots share the same sky? But he found out about us — about you — and he wanted in."
Bayo froze. "About me?"
Tope hesitated. "He knew your voice before he met you. I told him stories before Abeokuta, before Ibadan. About a man who wouldn't bend."
Bayo's jaw slackened. He turned toward the rain-dimmed window. "And you didn't think I deserved to know he existed?"
She whispered, "You didn't ask."
~ ~ ~
Ilorin — Outside the Safehouse, Midday
The clouds broke briefly, spilling sunlight over the wet ground.
Bayo stepped out, the wind slicing through his shirt, cold and cleansing.
He lit a cigarette — a rare vice — the flame shaking twice before catching. Smoke curled upward, dissolving into the damp air.
Through the doorway, Tope's voice drifted out, soft and cracked.
"I used to watch him sleep and wonder if the world would ever let him breathe as freely as he dreamed."
Bayo turned. She stood there — hair damp, face lined by fatigue but still fierce.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked again, this time without anger.
"Because love makes people careless," she said. "And I couldn't afford careless."
The cigarette fell from his fingers, hissing out in the wet dirt.
"So what now?" he murmured.
"We keep him alive," she said simply.
"And if he doesn't want to hide anymore?"
Her voice trembled but did not break. "Then we teach him to fight smarter than we did."
~ ~ ~
Ilorin — Interior, Evening
The lights flickered. Then came the ping — a faint encrypted tone, Ayo's signature.
TRANSMISSION COMPLETE. PHASE THREE UNLOCKED.
"Mom, tell uncle Bayo I'm sorry for the noise earlier. I wasn't supposed to use his name."
Bayo stared at the cracked tablet. His chest tightened.
Tope's voice was a whisper. "He's watching us, Bayo. From miles away, through the ghost of a signal. And he's still trying to protect you."
Bayo ran a hand through his hair. "He's a child, Tope. And we've turned him into our firewall."
"He was born into it," she said quietly. "This country doesn't wait for permission to make you old."
He looked at her — really looked — and saw not the commander, but the mother who had raised defiance in secret.
"If he's the Eagle," Bayo said finally, "then we give him wings that can't be clipped. Whatever it takes."
Tope's eyes glistened. "Then you'll stand with us?"
He gave a tired smile. "I never stopped."
~ ~ ~
Ilorin North — Night
The horizon flared orange where lightning split the sky. The safehouse glowed faintly — two figures framed against the lamplight, rebuilding trust one silence at a time.
Far away, in Ibadan, Ayo sat in the dark, his screens alive with shifting code. His mother's voice echoed faintly. Then Bayo's.
He smiled — a small, knowing smile.
"See you in the next shadow," he whispered, and vanished back into the grid.
The storm passed.
But its echo lingered — in code, in conscience, and in the breath of those who refused to surrender the air.